


Some Girls Don't

by anenko



Category: Ginger Snaps (2000 2004)
Genre: Bad Sex, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-07
Updated: 2004-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 02:45:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anenko/pseuds/anenko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ginger gets supernovas. Brigitte doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Girls Don't

She remembers this moment with perfect clarity:

Nighttime, late, and the house is quiet around them. Quiet except for the creak of bedsprings as Ginger shifts, and a sudden moan that Brigitte tells herself must be pain. She opens her eyes to the darkness and rolls to her side, towards her sister. "Ginger?"

Silence stretches between them, unbearable. Ginger lays perfectly still beneath her sheet, but her neck loosens and her head lowers: a vague blur of motion in the darkness. "Go back to sleep, Brigitte," Ginger says. Her voice is rough with frustration, and Brigitte has never felt like an intruder before.

"Ginger?" but her sister is ignoring her. Brigitte gnaws on her thumb, strains her eyes to catch the impatient rise and fall of Ginger's chest. Sweat gathers in the crook of her elbows, the bend of her knees, along her hairline. Her sheets feel sticky, the air oppressive, and Ginger is--Ginger is doing _things,_ Brigitte realizes, and her eyes snap shut.

She turns over: to her back, to her left side, and pushes her knuckles tight against her mouth. Ginger's bed squeaks, sheets slide against skin, and Ginger makes a noise that Brigitte wishes was pain. She pulls her knees in towards her chest, and wants to beg Ginger not to leave her--not now, not ever, please, and Ginger gasps and goes quiet.

Brigitte has devoted a lifetime to her sister. She knows her better than anyone, and quickly learns what that particular edge in Ginger's voice means, what to expect when she catches Ginger sliding her palms down her own hips, eyes slitted. Brigitte has no idea how many nights she had slept through, unknowing, as Ginger did. . . _things,_ but she knows now, and she can't and won't sleep while her sister is growing and changing and _touching_ herself right across from Brigitte.

She won't be left behind, and listening to Ginger's even breathing, Brigitte eases her fingers beneath the elastic band of her underwear. She doesn't close her eyes, can't bear the thought of Ginger waking, of Ginger _knowing,_ and cautiously works her fingers downwards. It feels. . . not entirely unpleasant, but there's nothing here to explain the helpless noises she's heard Ginger make. She shifts her fingers--winces as she tangles them in coarse curls--and stares at the ceiling, resentful.

Brigitte isn't stupid, she's not naive--she's heard other girls talking, and she's stolen moments with Pam's magazines before "The Perfect Orgasm" was something that Ginger would have taken seriously. She settles her free hand under her nightgown, breast riding against her palm. Brigitte arcs her thumb across her nipple, digs her fingers further between her thighs and wonders what all the fuss is about. Wonders when Ginger decided that girls who giggled over the thought of cock were anything less than sub-defectives. . . hopes to God that Ginger doesn't think about cookie-cutter handsome movie stars--or worse yet, boys from _school_\--while she's doing _this._

She's supposed to be thinking--fantasizing--Brigitte knows (she hates having to rely on Trina's locker-room gossip for information about this, for spending even a second on that bitch while she's rubbing at her own breasts). There's no one, no fantasy lover waiting in her subconscious to make things easier, better. There's nothing that she wants, nothing that doesn't make her damn puberty all over again.

Her nipple is getting tight, finally, but she's sore more than aroused, and this is fucking _boring._ She squirms uncomfortably, lets her legs fall further apart, and glowers into the darkness. Thinks about stopping, about forgetting that she had ever even thought about doing this, but. . . this is something that Ginger likes, something that makes Ginger feel good, and if Brigitte is willing to believe Pam about anything, it's this: boys can zone in on a girl who's thinking about sex in a heartbeat.

If Brigitte's not there, if Brigitte doesn't understand, then there will be no one standing between Ginger and those _dogs_ at school, and Ginger will have worse things riding her than her own fingers--

And Christ, she has a fucking cramp in her palm. She doesn't know how long she's been doing this, doesn't want to know. Her lower back is aching, too, so Brigitte draws her knees up and resettles her hand between her legs. The angle is different, better, and she hopes that she'll be able to finish this soon. She's wet now, too, and it's easier to slide her fingertips around. Too easy, she slips and catches her nail against herself, and oh--

Brigitte bites her lips, concentrates, and it still takes too long. It takes too long, and. . . it's nothing more than a growing tension, straining muscles, expectation and. . . nothing. It's over, and Brigitte's fingers are sticky, and her nipples are peaked, but she still doesn't understand. Maybe other girls can be conned into believing that this is something worth doing, that this is something special, but Ginger is smarter than this, she _is,_ and--

Ginger makes a strangled noise across the room--how long, Brigitte wonders, how long?--and Brigitte's face burns with shame. She rolls to her side, away from her sister--and oh God, oh fuck, she can smell herself on her own fingers, oh Christ--and folds her pillow over her head. Curls into a ball, and doesn't quite manage not to cry.

They don't speak of it the next day, or the next.


End file.
